I held the vision of Valentina tightly in my mind.

“Grandmother, your name isn’t Valentina, is it?” It wasn’t really a question.

“N-no, child.”

I studied Valentina closely. She was young, perhaps five or six years old, with pale blue eyes that hinted at more than a little bit of mischief. Except in visions, I had never seen her before. If she existed as anything other than my imagination, I could not tell whether I was looking at the past, present or future.

What are you doing? she asked again, and I could sense the odd blend of curiosity and annoyance in her voice. I could not find the words to answer.

Deep within, she began to calmly rise toward me, offering me a slender, shimmering thread. Astonished, I took it and unraveled it: Valentina’s in my arms. She’s two. We’re both smiling.

Camp 32 hadn’t stolen my memories of my daughter. They were securely sequestered within me, hidden beneath unfathomable layers of pain where no one could find them.

Valentina, Mommy is coming to get you.